The heat and humidity were oppressive and Shakespeare’s sheer linen collar was troubling him. If the air conditioning in the hotel were working properly, he wouldn’t feel like this.

That was another complaint.

He turned and addressed the man behind the desk once again: “And what the fuck is up with the air conditioning? It’s like a million degrees in here. If I weren’t sweating my nads off, I’d fucking chin you.”

The manager looked at him blankly, so Shakespeare added a postscript: “…you bastard.”

The man ignored him and squinted at a monitor in front of him before addressing the Bard.

“You can move into one of our superior rooms if you pay an additional 20 dollars a night.”

Shakespeare bridled. “Another 20 dollars a night? Fuck off.”

“Sir, I don’t think language like that is really appropriate for the Waldorf Astoria Orlando.”

“Oh, but it’s appropriate for there to be a pube in my bed, is it?”

“As I said, sir, we believe that having just got out of the bed yourself, there is a chance that could have been yours. But we are happy to upgrade you if you’re willing to pay the difference.”

“Pay the difference out of this,” said Shakespeare raising his middle finger and thrusting it in the manager’s face. “This is shit. This is weak. This a weak holiday, man. Weak!”